Look To Your Front
by Ysolde
Summary: Gawain in the heat of battle, gets a piece of advice about surviving from the survivalist above them all...according to Tristran himself, of course, with usual humility.


_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**This piece for a friend and comrade-in-arms who is going through a particularly tough time at the moment. Hang in there, Lioness! Look to your front. -Y.**_

_**ttt**_

Gawain was sitting below the tree.

Maybe sitting was the wrong description. He was leaning against it, holding a long stripe of torn cloth between his teeth, working furiously with the left hand to get a make-shift sort of torniquet in place on his upper arm.

His axe arm.

Gods how he hated this place. He hated it because it wasn't the plains. There was this damnedest... GROWTH everywhere, these huge trees obstructing one's view, preventing one from LOOKING, from seeing like one would be able to back home. Even going to high ground didn't necessarily help.

He hated it, also, because right now the woads were everywhere, and he had lost sight of Galahad, and he was working like a horse and the sweat and blood made his face itch. He was pretty sure he smelt like the wild argali sheep on the mountain-steppe back home.

It wasn't just Gal who was missing right now. He wondered where the others were, and why the hell they couldn't just stay close so he could take care of them, make sure nothing happened.

There was noise all about. Muffled sounds of struggle. Somewhere in front he could hear Bors roaring happily. Good, at least _he_ was in his own environment then.

He was lucky it was dark. He didn't know if he would have had the luxury of hiding out to tend to his own wounds if it had been daylight.

He looked again at the dead woad at his feet. Gods, he thought, it looks stupid when a guy lies on his stomach but face up.

Where was Arthur? Where the hell was the guy who was supposed to give orders, lead the boys?

Gawain was tired. Very very tired, and very worried.

This was probably why he barely even looked up at the rustling noise above. He knew he should get up in a hurry before the woad was upon him, but somehow he just couldn't be bothered. He had his axe at hand, and he lifted it, almost bored. Somehow, in the worrying about all the others, he'd lost the ability or incentive to worry seriously about himself.

The shadow of the Thing landed, paws first of course, in front of him.

Gawain could make out his mad grin in the dark.

"Don't do that!" He let go of the handle of the axe again, but only slightly.

Tristran chuckled. Gawain wasn't sure he liked the sound of it. He knew that hoarse, dry chuckle.

It came when the Thing was on a roll.

Tristran's face was wet, smeared in some dark substance. Whoseever blood it was, his own or someone elses, it was impossible to tell. Gawain doubted that the scout knew, or even cared.

His eyes glittered in the dark. He looked Gawain over quickly, assessing, the blonde warrior knew, whether he was managing.

Tristran would never actually ask you if you were managing, not in the heat of battle. Gawain dryly returned the look, feeling a short, strange sting of amusement at the fact that right now, in the presence of this utter madman, he suddenly felt so much more safe, and wondering, also, whether he oughtn't really feel more afraid. Tristran could be so utterly erratic.

Gawain glared at him.

"Where the fuck have you been? Where the hell is everyone?!" he then suddenly exploded.

Tristran didn't answer immediately. His eyes were closed, and he held up his hand, as if brushing the inherent accusation aside. He was stiff, still, listening. Gawain thought he could make out the fringes of the loons nostrils moving slightly, scenting the air.

Then, abruptly, Tristran opened his eyes. He pointed into the wilderness.

"That way," he whispered.

"Oh wonderful," Gawain muttered. He hoisted himself up again, feeling the thorough discomfort of the tight bandaging, as a strange pulsating sensation in his arm, but he knew that it was necessary.

He stared grimly into the darkness. There was no moon tonight. Everything was cloudy and dark, and just while he was standing there, musing upon the hopelessness of their situation, it began raining.

"You know," he remarked, halfturning his face in the direction of the predatorial shadow behind him, "It would be a hell of a lot easier to be the workhorse of this cataphract, if I could see where the ones I was supposed to protect were at!"

The man behind him answered with a wry sound, a sound which, he assessed, could be understood as a mix of a derisive laugh and some kind of acknowledgement, coming from this particular source.

"Look to your front," Tristran said.

The tone of his voice wasn't urgent. It was not a warning, more like a piece of advice.

Gawain turned, puzzled, and looked at his comrade.

Tristran was staring, intently, into the thick now. Then he drew his dao, and made a last, slight nod in acknowledgement of Gawains presence.

"Pay attention to what you should be doing," the scout concluded. "And when you are finished protecting yourself, then you can pay attention to how your sideman is doing."

And he grinned again, a white, pointy-toothed, manic madman grin, and took off, into the undergrowth.

He was gone as quickly and as silently as he had come, and no matter how Gawain exerted his hearing, he couldn't hear a sound of his friend.

But somehow, the deep, ominous silence coming from that direction acted as a kind of comfort.

Somewhere, to the left of him, Tristran was looking to his front.

"Right," Gawain of the Aorsi said, and tightened the grip around his axe.

The battle continued.


End file.
